Once Upon a Summer: A Folk and Fairy Tale Anthology: Once Upon a Season, #2

By H. L. Macfarlane, Adie Hart, A. J. Van Belle and 13 more

A village abandons all they knew in search of water.
A man covets the last roses of summer and pays the price in blood.
Two young monsters seek a peaceful life by the seaside.
 A scorching prophecy threatens to destroy all that a princess holds dear.

Once upon a time stories travelled from place to place on the tongues of merchants and thieves and kings alike. Around a crackling bonfire beneath a sky that never grew dark they were shared, and traded, and altered, until every corner of the globe had their own collection of tales.

In the spirit of these age-old stories comes Once Upon a Summer, a seasonal anthology of folk and fairy tales from 15 authors across the globe. It covers everything from summer romances to eco-terror to seaside ghost stories, and features both intriguing twists on classic tales and exciting original stories.

The second of four planned seasonal anthologies from Macfarlane Lantern Publishing, Once Upon a Summer is sure to have a story for just about everyone. Grab your copy in time for the solstice today!

 

Inside this anthology: 

The I Scream Van by Caroline Logan
What Big Geese You Have by Adie Hart
The Forest at the End of the World by Josie Jaffrey
It Is Written by S. Markem
These Burning Bones by Laila Amado
Vespertine by Elanna Bellows
The Last Roses of Summer by Kate Longstone
Love, Pride, Virtue and Fate by Bharat Krishnan
Juniper and the Upside Down Well by Ella Holmes
Love in the Time of Volcanoes by Jake Curran-Pipe
Bluebeard's Beach House by Jenna Smithwick
The Knucker of Lyminster by Katherine Shaw
Summer Dreams by R. A. Gerritse
The Witches of Dogtown by A. J. Van Belle
Contract with a Mermaid by M. J. Weatherall

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macfarlane Lantern Publishing
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223243977

H. L. Macfarlane

Hayley Louise Macfarlane hails from the very tiny hamlet of Balmaha on the shores of Loch Lomond in Scotland. Having spent eight years studying at the University of Glasgow and graduating with a BSc (hons) in Genetics and then a PhD in Synthetic Biology, Hayley quickly realised that her long-term passion for writing trumped her desire to work in a laboratory. Now Hayley spends her time writing across a whole host of genres, particularly fairy tales and psychological horror. During 2019, Hayley set herself the ambitious goal of publishing one thing every month. Seven books, two novellas, two short stories and one box set later, she made it. She recommends that anyone who values their sanity and a sensible sleep cycle does not try this.

Book preview

The I Scream Van

Caroline Logan

Sun

I go to my granny’s house every summer.

Well, she’s not technically my granny, but the old woman owes my mum a life debt and this is how she’s paying it back. When I was wee, she’d lock herself in her bedroom as soon as I arrived, only emerging when I headed out. Nowadays she’s gotten used to me. Mostly, we both keep to ourselves. It’s fine, I like being alone. We are a solitary species, inhabiting the dark and the quiet.

Honestly, I have no idea why my mother insists I come every year, but thankfully this is the last time I’ll be forced to spend the summer months in this village. I eye the squat little cottages, their white paint flaking, as I trudge down the cobblestone street. Most people are away, either working in the fields or fishing boats. That’s good. I’m not exactly welcome. I’ve learned to arrive during the day to avoid the stares. I may look human but the villagers know I am not.

I weave down the roads, past the post office and the run-down cafe. My granny’s house is near the pier; an old bungalow with a cracked chimney. She really needs to get that fixed. I thought she had a mate a while back but I think I scared him away. She’s too old now to climb on roofs herself. Shame.

I come to a stop at the cottage’s gate, taking deep breaths and inhaling the pungent lavender. The only sound is the incessant buzz of the bees and for a moment I wonder if she’s in. But then there’s movement in the frosted glass window attached to the kitchen. My shoulders curl inwards as I open the gate and finally ring the doorbell.

There’s a soft humming and then the door opens. The old woman who stands there has her hair up in rollers and is wearing a housecoat and a pleasant smile. As soon as she sees me, her face crumples into one of fear and loathing.

You’re back.

Hello, Granny, I say without a smile.

She grunts. Stop calling me that.

I want to lash out, to bite and claw, but I roll my eyes, just like I’ve seen other teenagers do. Permit me entry. Remember your debt. These are words my mother taught me, words I say every year.

There is mutiny in the old woman’s eyes and she makes a great show of resisting, as she always does. But, inevitably, she moves to the side so I can step in.

Can I head up to my room? I ask, tugging on the straps of my backpack.

Granny sighs, resigned. I am going to pretend you’re not here.

I grin before climbing the creaky wooden staircase to the guest room I inhabit whenever I’m here. There’s a new decoration on the door: a golden cross that seems far too gaudy for the old woman. I wonder if it was a gift from a concerned neighbour? I know vaguely that humans put these up to ward off demons. I trace the metal with my index finger. Not even real gold. Maybe I’ll get her a better one as a parting gift.

Inside the room is just an empty shell; I don’t see a single trace of myself unless I really look. But I’m here in the way the dust coats every surface, as if Granny can’t bring herself to use the room even when I’m gone. I’m here in the nail marks I’ve pressed into the awful foamy wallpaper and the spot of red lipstick she can’t seem to wash out of the curtains.

I upend my backpack on the bed, the contents spilling out over the floral duvet cover, and inspect my haul. Along with old nick-knacks from previous years, I’ve got a variety of new clothes. The old ones were probably a fine fit but every year the humans have new fashions and I like to blend in. Oversized checked shirts, crop tops and overalls were hanging on most washing lines on my walk here so I grabbed a few of each. Maybe the owners will think they blew away.

Once I’ve put away my small bundle of possessions, I’m left with the glaring stretch of days and weeks ahead of me. One more summer, I remind myself. I can do this.

The sun is filtering through the blinds so I head outside to see what has changed in the village since last year. The answer is most likely nothing. Nothing ever changes.

It must be the end of the workday because there are a few more neighbours milling around now. Hello Mr Fleming, I say when I spot the postman doing his rounds. He snaps his gaze to mine at the sound of his name and then turns in the other direction, rushing back up the street he’d just come down.

I get mostly the same reaction wherever I go. Mrs Davidson at the tearoom touches her head and shoulders in a strange ritual that I know has something to do with the cross back at the cottage. Wee Davie McKenzie actually spits at the ground when I walk by, which I think is rude but also quite brave. Good for him. I distinctly remember he peed his cargo shorts last year.

The thing is, the villagers are used to me. My presence is always a shock at first, but then they just get on with their lives and ignore me. The children have been warned to stay away. I am permitted to buy cakes but not to sit in the cafe. No one exchanges pleasantries but they also don’t scream or, thank goodness, chase me down the street with pitchforks. I blend in enough that I am tolerated.

I make my way back to the cottage when I’ve done a lap of the village. Granny is in the kitchen making something with far too much cinnamon in it. I lean against the doorway, breathing in the smoke from the cigarette she has hanging from her lips.

I’m hungry, I say, enjoying the way she jumps.

Go to Hell. She raises a shaking, batter-covered hand to her face, taking the cigarette and smashing it into a carved glass ashtray beside her.

That’s bad for you, you know, I say, nodding at it. You’re not getting any younger.

She snorts wetly and I wonder what the insides of her lungs look like. If I feed you, will you go away?

Until the next time. I smile with all of my dull, human-like teeth, but Granny shivers all the same, as if imagining what’s beneath the illusion. She nods to the old, pistachio-coloured fridge and I go to inspect it. Inside are a couple of whole haddocks, their scales shining in the static light. I pull one out and leave her to her baking, throwing a thanks over my shoulder because Mum said to be polite. The moon is out along with the sun when I sink down onto the porch step to eat my dinner.

I tear into it, the flesh briny and tasting of summer. The fish back home don’t swim in saltwater, after all. I’m almost down to the spine when a noise floats up the road, stopping me.

It’s tinny and jangly but the song is vaguely familiar. It takes me a second, but when it loops back, I think I remember some words. If you go down to the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise. Well, I can think of a lot of surprises in the woods, but none I’d like to sing about. There are monsters far worse than me. I hum along anyway because the noise is getting louder and I want to see what it is. While I wait, I notice the villagers are acting strangely.

First, Mrs Brown from across the road runs out of her cottage with wild eyes. She shouts the name of her son, clutching at her hair like she’s about to rip it out. When he appears from the other end of the garden, she snatches him up and runs inside, leaving his toys discarded on the grass.

Other children run down the street, stampeding over the cobblestones and into their houses. They are greeted with relieved hugs from their parents before the doors are slammed shut.

Up and down the road, the humans retreat inside, drawing the curtains across the windows. It all takes a matter of seconds but then the place is quiet, save for the cheery song getting closer and closer.

Granny appears behind me in the doorway. I need to shut this door, she says. In or out.

I lower what is left of my fish to the concrete step beside me. What’s going on?

The ice cream van. She casts a furtive glance down the street. It’s not safe.

Ice cream? I ask, perking up. It must be new. There hasn’t been an ice cream van in all the other years I’ve been here. Can I have some money?

Granny curls her lip. You’re not the only monster in town now. Then she nudges me with the side of her leg until I lean forward, closing the door behind me with a thud.

I blink in shock, both from her touch and her words. Another monster? Someone like me?

These people have had me in their village every summer since I was eight and I’ve never had this reaction from them. I think back to earlier, when the postie saw me and power-walked away. Power-walked, not sprinted, screaming, not finding the nearest house to barricade himself inside.

It is with this thought that I unfold myself from the step. This is my town. I’m the only one who gets to scare them.

I stomp forward, unlatching and relatching the gate as I step through it. I can see the ice cream van now, chugging merrily along its route. It’s white with a blue trim and there are badly painted cartoon characters on the sides. Their beady black eyes watch me as the van pulls up and stops.

Above the window, a sign proclaims the van sells ice cream. Except it’s spelled wrong. The pink curling letters instead say ‘I Scream’.

I get a glimpse of glass bottles and sweetie tubs as the hand brake is pulled on, shaking the vehicle and dislodging a few pre-made packets of dolly mixtures with the force. Then a woman with a halo of curling blonde hair appears at the window and my rage ratchets up a notch.

Her voice is lilting and melodic, and she fixes a friendly smile on her face. What can I get yo—

You’re about as subtle as a brick wall, I cut her off, seething. I mean, look at you.

And I do look, pressing my hands to the side of the van so I can stand on my tiptoes and glare at her. Now that I’m closer, it’s even more obvious that she is other. It’s in the blink of an eye, just before my lids close. Her skin and hair turn the colour of sea glass for that split second and I find I’m fluttering my eyelashes, just to glimpse of her true face. Then I realise what I’m doing and try to stare at the tub of cola bottles behind her head instead.

I’m new to the area, she says, staring down at me quizzically. Do you want an eighty-nine?

"It’s a ninety-nine. I make a noise somewhere between a snort and a growl. I want you to go back to where you came from. This is my town."

I haven’t seen you around, she says, her smile faltering.

I just got here but I come every summer. I curl my lip. What’s your name?

Hazel.

You couldn’t have picked something more modern? And look at your clothes. No one wears shoulder pads anymore.

Hazel squirms under my gaze, biting her lip. No one told me.

I let out a sigh. Perhaps I’ve been too mean. No wonder you haven’t fooled anyone. These people know the old stories. They probably spotted you the second you washed up.

Do they know about you…? she trails off, leaving the space for my name.

Fern, I supply, grudgingly.

Isn’t that a plant?

My lip curls up. It’s a lot cooler than Hazel, which I believe is also a plant. Yes, they know about me but only because I’ve been coming here since before I learned to assimilate. Not that anyone here would even use that word. But if a tourist came to town, I’m sure they wouldn’t know what I am.

Tourists? Hazel blinks her huge eyes and I’m reminded of an owl.

Outsiders. They don’t come by often. We’re in the middle of nowhere.

A slow smile is curling around her lips. Where would we find tourists?

Round the coast, probably. As soon as you start seeing big hotels, you’ll find them.

Hotels?

I don’t think I’ve ever been asked so many questions; she really is clueless. Suddenly, a vision of a fishing net and pitchforks flashes before me. I’ve heard what humans can do when they’re scared and brave enough. If I leave Hazel to her own devices, she might not even have a chance to learn, to blend in. You’re ridiculous. Meet me back here tomorrow. But then I have an idea. No, wait here.

You’re very bossy, Hazel says brightly.

I grit my teeth as I march back to the cottage, having to break the lock on the door with a flick of my wrist before I can throw it open. Granny is probably hiding in her bedroom. I’m thankful the old woman isn’t around to ask questions. I collect my prize and head back out, glad to see Hazel hasn’t driven off. Maybe she has some self-preservation after all.

Here, I say, thrusting the second fish at her. There’s no way you’ll catch a human so this will have to do.

I can catch my own fish, she says haughtily, but she takes it all the same.

Here, tomorrow, same time, I say. Try to stay out of trouble between now and then, yeah?

Okay, thanks Fern.

I grumble, knotting my arms across my chest as she moves back to the cab and waves before pulling away. My eyes snag on the painting on the back of the van. Watch yer wains, it warns.

It’s not even the right spelling, I say with a grimace.

***

The next day I wear a path into the grass waiting for the horrible jangly music. It’s warm, even though it’s early evening, and the plastic bag I’m clutching has left ink on my bare legs. At one point, I look back at my cottage, spotting my granny in the window upstairs. She glares at me and pulls the curtains closed so forcefully I think she must have ripped the fabric.

There’s a faint scream just before the ice cream van’s tune starts again, still far away. I’ve learned the song is called Teddy Bear’s Picnic and I somehow have more questions than answers. Like yesterday, the villagers scramble into their houses. I have the urge to walk down to meet Hazel as the van appears at the far end of the road but I’m not sure why.

Finally, the truck stops outside my gate and I bounce on my toes, expecting to spot her face at the window. But to my surprise, Hazel lets herself out the driver’s door, keys jangling in her hand as she greets me.

Hi Fern, she says. She’s wearing a bright shift today. It makes her legs look much too long.

I thrust the plastic bag at her with a growl.

What’s this? she asks, inspecting the contents.

Clothes that won’t make you look like you’re in costume. I shove my hands in my pockets. I had to go to the next village over to find something decent for you.

Thank you, she says brightly. And then she pulls her dress over her head.

Not here, I splutter. "You are ridiculous." I try to shove her back into the van but she’s so much taller than me. It takes her a moment to realise what I’m doing and then she opens the door, pulling me in after her.

You can’t just get undressed in the middle of the road. The words come out in a hiss that isn’t even remotely human.

Is it okay to do it in here?

I sigh, running a hand through my hair and pulling on the ends. Fine, but I’ll have to block the window or everyone’s going to get an eyeful.

I don’t know why I’m so incensed. It’s not even her real body, after all. Maybe the humans have rubbed off on me too much. Taking my place at the windows, I spread my arms to take up as much of the view as possible. There’s a lot of rustling behind me and at one point Hazel falls into my back. There is far too much bare skin.

Sorry, still not used to these legs.

I roll my eyes but my heart is beating too fast now.

After way too long, Hazel announces she’s dressed and I turn to survey my handiwork. The cropped polo and tennis skirt aren’t really my thing but they look good on her. She pushes a matching headband into her hair and I immediately wish I’d done it for her.

Do you think I’ll fit in now? she asks, a faint blush colouring her cheeks.

Not in this village, I say, clenching my hands at my sides. It’s too late for that.

But you said there were other towns with hotels and tourists. She says the words reverently, like they’re somehow magical and mysterious.

Yes, and you’ll probably get on better there.

She worries her lip between her teeth. I don’t really know where to go. Would you take me?

The refusal is sour in my mouth, ready to be spoken. It’s not that I don’t want to leave, it’s just that I had resigned myself to one last summer in this little fishing village. Yes, Granny had made a promise, but so had I. But, then again… I think back to the exact wording of that oath. Spend the summer with the humans. That had been my mother’s only stipulation. Perhaps I’m not as trapped as I thought.

I blink a few times, watching Hazel’s appearance flicker between the illusion and her true self. Both versions look terribly trusting. It’s not a good quality to have but I suppose that’s my problem now. Fine, but I’ll need to get my stuff. I won’t be coming back. Just before I duck out the door, I turn back. What exactly did you do to make the whole town so scared of you, anyway?

Hazel looks sheepish. I might have eaten a cat.

***

You’re leaving. It’s not a question.

I look over my shoulder to where Granny looms in the doorway of my bedroom and snort. You’re free from your promise a little earlier than expected.

And you won’t be back?

I shove my baseball cap into the bag. Would you like me to come back for a visit? I could call you sometimes, if you want? Let you know how I’m getting on or how I’m spending my birthday money? The old woman says nothing as I straighten and heft the bag on my shoulders. I know you’ll miss me, Granny, but I have to grow up at some point.

Thank you for not killing me, she says stiffly.

Thanks for the room and the fish.

Hazel is in the driver’s seat when I head outside. It’s getting dark now but the headlights are enough for me to find my way to the passenger’s door.

Ready to go? Hazel asks as I climb in.

I give the cottage one last look before I nod. Please don’t play the jingle.

***

It turns out the van has a radio, which I turn up loud as we drive. The sickly sweet pop beats are only a tiny bit less annoying than Teddy Bear’s Picnic but Hazel tries to sing along to words she’s clearly never heard before and it makes me warm inside for some reason. We drive for hours down winding roads until she announces she needs to sleep. Hazel pulls the van into a passing place and we both push our chairs back, propping our legs on the dashboard so we’re sprawled out. Her flip-flops knock into my tennis shoes and it all feels very domestic. She’s unconscious almost immediately and I watch her skin turn green as if she can’t keep up the illusion in her sleep.

Ridiculous, I think again as I slide into a dream that’s just flashes of a beach and Hazel smiling and ice cream scoops.

The next day, I can tell we’re getting close to civilization by the dozens of caravans we pass on the road. Humans, I know, love a caravan in theory. But where do they go when the reality isn’t as fun?

Hotels, I say, pointing at the buildings in the harbour town below. It’s where tourists go on their holidays.

The car parks are full when we arrive and it takes us around half an hour of searching before we spot someone pulling out so we can nab their space. There are a few eyes on us when we get out of the van and I worry I've made a mistake. Maybe the tourists are savvier than I gave them credit for. But then we start walking down the promenade and their eyes stay on the truck. Right, they just want ice cream.

Where should we start? I ask, watching the crowd part around us like a school of fish.

Hazel twirls a curl around her finger and then lets out a squeal of glee. Come on, she says, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards some fluttering flags. I know my palms are clammy from the heat of the day but she doesn’t let go, even as we near a ticket booth.

Three pounds entry, says the spotty teen behind the counter.

I go to reach into my pocket for the little change I have but Hazel stops me with a squeeze of her hand. Her palm is a little sweaty but I find I don’t mind.

Wish for free entry, she says with a twinkle in her eye.

I don’t know why I don’t question it but I suddenly feel like I can’t refuse her. I wish for free entry.

There’s a shimmer in the air and then the teen nods dismissively. On you go.

How? I ask as we enter the gates.

I can give away wishes. It doesn’t work when I ask for it but if someone else does… She shrugs. Nothing too big, though.

It turns out we’re at a funfair. I’ve only seen them on TV but the screaming of the humans invites me in and soon I find myself strapped into a cart with Hazel beside me. It starts to crank forward, pulling us up the hill with shuddering motions.

I don’t like this, I say, knuckles white against the bar. I’m smaller than Hazel and there’s a lot more room for me to fall out.

She puts her arm around my shoulders, tucking me into her body. On a normal day, I’d scramble away, hissing, but I’m frozen in my seat. It’ll be fun, she says as we reach the crest.

Then we’re falling and there’s screaming and I try to look for the source and I realise it’s me. The shout is ripped from me like a sacrifice and by the time we reach the bottom of the hill I feel I’ve lost more than the sound. Tears run down my cheeks. My stomach turns over, threatening